


Until We Meet Again

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [25]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Discoveries, M/M, Recovery, almost to the end my friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7440916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Layton recovers from his injuries and Flora goes on a trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until We Meet Again

“Are you sure you can manage?”

“I’m certain. I have been injured before, and I know how to—,” he tripped.

Desmond and Flora caught him by each arm. “What’s that you were saying, Professor?” Flora asked.

“Now my girl,” he began, huffing as he was brought deeper into his home, “don’t tell me all my time away from the two of you was enough to dismantle those well-built manners of yours.”

Flora chuckled. “No Professor. My manners are very much the same.”

“Your medicine is simply making you notice the underlying snark in our Flora,” Desmond declared.

There was an exchange of looks amongst the three at the way Desmond declared that she was theirs rather than just Layton’s. That those looks contained beaming grins told Desmond that he was more than welcome to refer to Flora as such.

That he no longer thought of himself as Descole or Des was enough for him to realize that his days as a vigilante posing as a villain were over.

However, his days of caring for Layton in his recovery had only just begun. He spent more time sitting up in a chair beside the bed than actually lying down beside the professor. He rested his chin in his hand, leaning heavily to one side as his other palm grasped Layton’s. Layton’s recovery was a lot less active than Desmond’s recovery had been earlier in the year. Last year. How long had it been?

He didn’t bother to consider the time he’d spent there.

Fortunately Layton was a much more agreeable patient that Desmond had been. He could say that this was because Layton had always been the better man. He could also say it was thanks to the wonderful painkillers the hospital had provided him. Truly, Desmond had never had such an experience with painkillers. They had always started to set in late and then cut out early on him. Meanwhile they knocked Layton flat out and ensured that he got some much needed rest.

Layton didn’t have any leg injuries, but the bullet had been so close to his spine that it was incredibly lucky that he hadn’t been paralyzed. Layton had taken to using a cane to walk. That is, when he was finally able to walk without leaning on Desmond or Flora. He complained of discomfort if he had to stand for too long, but the intervals between getting up and feeling the pinch grew longer by the day. Desmond was glad to see him growing stronger.

Even happier to be able to leave the house without fear to fetch whatever grocery was needed.

The fear wasn’t immediately gone, naturally. Before going out he would have the sudden trepidation of a man still in hiding. His heart would skip beats, then he would remember. His name was clear. He was free. He’d done his job.

He could move on.

As Layton took time to recover, Gressenheller needed someone to fill in for the absentee professor. Desmond went out on a limb, and soon Professor Layton was substituted by Professor Sycamore.

His first week teaching, he’d been a nervous wreck. Layton had handed him all of his lesson plans, all rather basic in comparison to the range of knowledge he knew the two men shared, and his immediate concern was that he would go off on an unrelated tangent and completely switch topics in the middle of schooling. It turned out . . . that was a completely valid concern. He did exactly that for the very first week of his time as a Gressenheller scholar.

But then he learned that the students paid attention to his rants.

He learned that they listened closely, taking careful notes.

Certainly there were some who leaned back in their chairs and napped (now those he had fun quizzing at random to see if they actually had been listening), but ultimately he was able to cover the necessary material and fill in some other sections with his ranting alone.

He didn’t become worried until testing time rolled around and he had to recall exactly what it was he had ranted about.

He included essay questions, figuring that it was much fairer to present the students with the opportunity to go off on a tangent since they had quietly and patiently listened to him. His bonus questions typically consisted of obscure tidbits he’d managed to recall from his tangents. As it turned out, the majority of the students remembered those exact tidbits.

“They are sharp aren’t they?” Layton asked one evening as Desmond was grading papers.

“Almost too sharp. I wonder if it’s because I’m not a difficult enough teacher or if they are simply too intelligent for me.”

“Neither,” Layton declared, sipping his tea slowly and sighing as he shifted in his chair. “If they are at university, it is because they want to be at university. They want to learn.” Layton smiled. “It’s easier to learn when a professor is passionate about his work.”

“I don’t consider my spinoffs passionate. More like, mildly irritated with those who claim to be educated and yet spew incorrect information.”

“That is passion to some students. It shows you care about providing them with the information they truly need.”

Desmond considered this. He supposed Layton was right as he openly mused, “It’s been so long since I have considered myself a student I wouldn’t know anymore.”

To which Layton responded with a wider grin. “In order to teach, one must accept that their journey as a student is not yet finished.”

Desmond couldn’t argue with that in the slightest.

Not all of the students knew the man that Professor Sycamore was filling in for, but those who did jumped to greet Professor Layton on his first trip out to see the students again. He assured the dean that he was hoping to return as soon as he was a hundred percent better.

And the dean asked if Professor Sycamore would mind returning alongside Professor Layton.

He told the dean he would most definitely consider it.

(:)

“I will be back in a year.”

“Safe journey, dear girl.”

“Professors?”

“Hm?”

Flora was quiet for a moment, holding her bags as her eyes darted between Layton and Desmond. In a flash, she dropped her bags and threw her arms around both. “I will miss you.”

Layton grunted and Desmond gasped, but both returned the embrace. Desmond more awkwardly than Layton. “The year will go by quickly,” Desmond assured her halfheartedly.

“And I will have Luke with me.”

Layton smiled. He had missed that boy greatly. He couldn’t imagine how he had grown. However, he was not sure he had wanted to see Luke again at the cost of not having Flora for a year.

Many questioned his attachment to the girl, but it was most assuredly there.

It hurt as the two professors saw her off on the boat.

Back at home Layton and Desmond were quiet. Things were different without Flora there. Almost . . . darker. She had maintained a certain brightness and liveliness in the home, so much so that it was noticeably bleaker without her.

“Do you think Don Paolo really will follow her overseas?” Desmond asked.

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest.” Desmond was quiet after that. Layton looked up from his book . . . to see the older man looking at a picture. He held it in both hands, grasping it like he was afraid to let it go.

And yet it seemed by his expression he desperately needed to.

Layton . . . recognized the expression. He knew it by heart. He had worn it himself. He didn’t need to ask what the photograph Desmond was looking at bore.

He already knew it was a picture of Desmond’s family.

Layton recalled how the man had been honest with him over their end, and found himself standing up and moving towards the other. He then remembered a moment long ago, when Layton and Desmond—then Descole—had been rivals. He thought on how he had pleaded for the sanctity of his wallet.

And in that moment he broke that sanctity of his own accord.

Pulling the worn leather from his pocket he opened it and pulled out his own photograph. Like the one in Desmond’s hand, it was tattered at the edges from age. It was slightly faded, and there were thumbprints where he had held it as fiercely as Desmond held his picture now. Sliding the picture into Desmond’s view, he managed to snag the man’s attention away from the image in his hands.

Desmond stared at the woman with the red hair and glasses in the image, lowering his own palms as his body seemed to lose the rigidity it once had. “She’s beautiful.”

Layton nodded sadly as he seated himself beside Desmond. “As was your family.”

There was a long pause. Desmond set his photograph down slowly, letting it rest beside the picture Layton had pulled from his wallet. He let out a shaky breath. “Her name?”

Layton felt his throat tighten as he said it. “Claire.”

One could have heard a pin drop. It was so very quiet between the two of them. “I knew . . . you had lost someone. That day in the . . . incident.” A moment of silence. “I am sorry.”

“I am too.” He pointed to the picture of Desmond’s family. “For you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Desmond and Layton leaned against one another in a supportive manner that wasn’t holding up the weight of one. No, they were holding each other both up as Desmond honestly admitted, “It’s difficult saying goodbye.”

Layton agreed. “At least . . . some of us get to say it.”

“Yes.” He doubted Desmond had actually gotten to say it to his wife and daughter. “That is . . . very true.”

After a length of time spent remembering, they began to share their memories aloud. Desmond told Layton of his daughter’s intelligence, his wife’s sauciness. She had not tolerated Desmond’s attitude in the slightest. Layton told of Claire’s research, and her dedication. He swore she was more brilliant than himself at certain points. She certainly had more confidence than he ever had.

They talked for hours, sharing memories. They expanded from the dead to the living. Desmond’s family. Claire. Raymond. Luke and Emmy. Luke and Flora. Adventures they had had, schooling. Randall, Angela, Henry. As they went on and on, telling of their lives and what they had found and what they had lost, they drew closer. Physically and emotionally, they drew closer. They shared fears. Aspirations. They spoke of what had led to them having both.

By the time they realized they had spent the entirety of lunchtime and supper talking, they didn’t seem to mind. As they sat with hands clasped and sides pressed together, they decided . . . .

They were taking care of themselves just fine.

It seemed that not all had been lost after all.

(:)

Raymond sat with Keats in his lap, waiting for Desmond to arrive. They sat in silence for a moment, Professor Sycamore settling slowly. The waiter came to take their orders soon after leaving them with their tea and water. Keats meowed, and Desmond had a difficult time concealing the expression of bemusement as Raymond poured the cat a saucer of milk and set the both on the ground.

What a strange friendship.

When he looked back up, Raymond asked, “Are you well, Master?” Desmond nodded. “Well enough to consider what you will do now?” Desmond hesitated, and Raymond caught on. “You still have some decisions to make I’m afraid, Master.”

Desmond did.

And he wasn’t positive if he would ever be ready to make those decisions.


End file.
